


Solaris Kitchen Nightmares

by Xyriath



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Restaurant, Comedy, Ed-level cursing, Gordon Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-13
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-20 05:41:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5993599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xyriath/pseuds/Xyriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jean Havoc's restaurant, Solaris Grill, is in trouble—once a five star affair, he's now been forced to sell off most of the ownership and profits are nonexistent.</p><p>Enter Edward Elric, successful restaurateur and the main, foulmouthed attraction of "Elric's Kitchen Nightmares," a program that whips failing restaurants into shape in the bluntest way possible—if he can deal with the mess it's become and an obnoxious, attractive host who won't stop flirting with him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A MASSIVE THANK-YOU to the FMA 18+ group chat and several other friends for helping me make this happen and encouraging me and running with the idea to the point where this thing practically fell out of my fingers! See the [tumblr post](http://xyriath.tumblr.com/post/139249743247/solaris-kitchen-nightmares-chapter-1-ao3) for a full list of dedications, and the tumblr tag [#Solaris Kitchen Nightmares](https://www.tumblr.com/tagged/Solaris-Kitchen-Nightmares) for updates and art!
> 
> If you're not familiar with the premise of Kitchen Nightmares, ~~[watch an episode it's fantastic](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rdQFhK4GPYY)~~ you can find a summary of it [here](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ramsay's_Kitchen_Nightmares), or just read on to find out! As for Masterchef, it's just a standard cooking competition, but I smooshed it together with Hell's Kitchen and made the reward a restaurant, because I can.

“I’m beggin’ you, boss, Solaris needs your help!”

“When I gave you that restaurant, Havoc, I _told_ you I wasn’t gonna hold your hand.”  Ed’s voice was tinged with irritation, but he tried to keep it at a minimum.  He had _liked_ Havoc.  Sort of.  As much as he had ever liked anyone.

“I know, I know.  But it’s not just me—“

“Yeah, and what’s this I hear about you _losing_ it?  You won a goddamn restaurant and then _lost_ it?”

“I didn’t!  We were in a bad spot, and one of my people stepped in and offered to buy me out—“

“So he’s your boss now.”

“I’m a _co_ -owner.”

“Uh huh.”

“Look, I can—I promise, we’ve got a crazy crew down here.  The folks on TV’ll eat it up.  Some people down here could _really_ use a yellin’ at.”

Ed groaned, tipping his head back, staring up at the ceiling.  He had a reputation as a hardass to maintain, but… if this was as complicated as Jean promised, filming would go over schedule, and he _really_ needed an excuse to get out of cooking for that godawful political candidate Ling had thought would make a great publicity stunt.  Yeah, he’d have the man destroyed before the soup course was over, but it would involve _shaking his hand._

“Fuckin’ fine.  Consider yourself the next stop on Kitchen Nightmares.”

—

“Are you ready, Mr. Havoc? You can go at any time. Camera’s rolling.”

Jean frowned, glancing over at the kid behind the camera—Kain was as tiny and cute as ever—and the man standing beside him—who was as handsome and elegant as ever. Ling Yao had an air about him, despite his easy demeanor; something about the sharp suit and the way he turned his head just so to size up anyone that might be of interest set off little alarm bells in the back of his mind that screamed, _you should really not hit on this guy._

That, and the woman lingering in the background, inconspicuous in a way that Jean knew from experience only the best security could manage. Yeah, probably best not to even think about trying anything. It had been bad enough, seeing them on the periphery when on Masterchef, but this up close and personal? Yeah, this was gonna be interesting.

“What d’you want me to say?” he asked, trying not to lean back and cross his arms. Yeah, his kitchen—his restaurant— _was_ a goddamned mess, but now that he was about to be on camera for it, especially after the last time…

“Whatever you’d like,” Ling said smoothly. “Give us a background. Why you started the restaurant, something sentimental, what happened…

Jean gritted his teeth a little. Well, time to suck it up. He took a deep breath.

“I won Solaris Grill a few years back, in Chef Elric’s Masterchef competition. Thought I had it made, then, but… not too far into it, it started to go downhill.” He crossed his arms and leaned back. “It seemed to be doin’ well, but we started takin’ in less and less. After I couldn’t afford the liquor license, it got real bad, to the point where my accountant and manager, Frank, had to step in and bail me out.” He sighed, the familiar flavor of bitterness in the back of his mouth—and it was _still_ the best-tasting thing in the restaurant at this point, after all of the changes. “Technically he’s the owner now.”

“So you _lost_ the restaurant that Chef Elric gave to you.”

Jean shot a glare at Ling, who was standing off-screen. “I still co-own—“

“But he makes all the big decisions. Has all the leverage.”

“Well, I mean, he… owns most of it, now—“

“And how’s that been going for the two of you?”

Jean grimaced. “It’s gotten goddamned worse. We _bled_ customers for a while. Now there’s nothing left to bleed. Food’s shit, service is shit, and we’re just—if I don’t get this sorted, Solaris is gone, along with my life’s savings.”

“He’s not going to be happy with that, is he?” Ling mused lightly.

Jean just groaned and buried his face in his hands.

“Now, now,” Ling admonished gently. “Why don’t you tell us why Solaris means so much to you?”

Jean stared at Ling a little incredulously, then back at the camera when he pointed. He decided to focus on Kain instead; it helped him feel less _completely_ shitty. “Seriously? Solaris is my _life._ I’ve always wanted to run a restaurant, and then I got the chance of a lifetime, and it was perfect for a while.” He looked away, the stress of—well, _always_ , lately, returning full force, twisting his chest. “I never _dreamed_ I’d end up with someplace like this.”

To his horror, he felt the back of his nose start to sting, and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath to try to get himself under control. “And then I about blew it. If… if we can save this, I’m still getting enough money that I can buy it back someday.”

He took another deep breath, then opened his eyes, looking intently into the camera, not caring that his eyes were reddening and misting. Facing down a tiny, terrifying Scottish chef and his unforgiving criticism? It would be worth it.

“And I don’t care what it takes, I don’t care if I gotta jump through hula hoops or get on my knees and beg, I’m gonna fix it. Just you watch.”

The silence rang in the air for a few moments, and then Ling said, “Aaaand, cut!”

Jean jumped a little at the words, feeling oddly like he’d just been spun around into an entirely different world.

“That’s perfect, Mister Havoc,” Ling chirped, peering over at the camera. “Just perfect. Precisely what we needed.”

—

Ed hadn’t been to Solaris in years, and they had been kinder to him then they had to it. Though it was still the elegant San Franciscan building that he had chosen himself, stepping in left him _immediately_ curling his lip. The interior had been changed to a definite “trying too hard” kind of pseudo-fancy décor, which wasn’t helped in the slightest by the air of faint dinginess that gave Ed, as a professional restaurateur, an idea of how hard the cash flow—or lack thereof—had been on Solaris.

Well, that and the nearly empty dining room.

At this point in his television career, he didn’t even need to comment. A well-placed look into the camera after a pan of the empty tables said everything he needed.

He walked up to the host’s stand, glancing over his shoulder at the camera. “Guess we’ll see what this place has to offer.”

The host—was he fucking—his back was to the fucking door, and there was a mirror. He was actually staring into the fucking mirror behind the host’s stand.

Another look into the camera, and he turned back and waited. And waited.

He finally cleared his throat.

The host obviously startled, whirling, a faintly alarmed expression on his face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t see you there! How can I—oh my god, you’re Edward Elric!”

Ed raised an unimpressed eyebrow at him. “Last time I checked.” What, had they not been told he was coming? He glanced over at the host: handsome enough; dark, narrow eyes; a pleasantly wide face; Japanese (or half; Ed had experience with that bit himself); and with a cocky smirk on his face,

“I’m a huge fan.” His eyes had widened, and his deep voice had suddenly taken on a _very_ interesting tone as he thrust out his hand. “Roy Mustang—“

“Are you sure it’s not Narcissus?”

Roy Mustang’s expression froze right in the middle of an uncertain smile, hand hanging in empty air. “Sorry?”

“The mirror! You were staring in the bloody mirror instead of paying attention to the customers!”

Roy Mustang’s mouth was now hanging open slightly. Ed wondered if he had any expressions beyond “smug” and “flummoxed.” Either way, he wasn’t coming across as too bright. “I—“

“Fuck’s sake, man! I get that you’ve got next to no one in the building, but that just means you need to be that much better to the ones you do get, because they’re doing you the fucking favor of actually coming into the godforsaken restaurant!” Fuck’s sake was right; how the hell had Jean let things get to the point where a customer had to clear his throat to get service?!

“Sorry,” Roy replied, still looking a little dazed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“Well then show me to the bloody table!”

Ed wished he could say that he had never seen anyone scurry so quickly, but for his job, it was par for the course.

—

The menu, Ed was relieved to note, at least looked palatable—though in his experience, that didn’t always mean much. Ed sent up his standard prayer to the different deities his parents had observed—he wasn’t much of a believer, but if he had _some_ familial cred with God or Allah or whoever, he might as well use it. He would _really_ like not to get food poisoning at a restaurant he had played a part in bringing into the world.

The eggplant with a creole piquant and hollandaise looked pleasant, and the Cajun gumbo seemed like a safe bet. He noted the oysters—less of a safe bet, but very telling of overall restaurant quality.

His eyes lit up when he saw the crawfish étouffée. Jean Havoc could do _sinful_ things with crawfish, and the last time Ed had tasted that dish, it had won Jean a quarter of a million dollars and a restaurant.

“Boss!”

Speak of the devil.

Ed turned to stand, embracing Jean briefly and kissing both cheeks as Jean returned the motion, then sat back down, leaning his arm on the rim of the table and pointing his pen in the vicinity of Jean’s chest. “That’ll be _chef_ in a couple of hours. Hope you haven’t forgotten how to say it.”

Jean just beamed at him, and Ed’s irritation at the inattentive host faded with just how _eager_ —and subtly desperate—he was to see him. “Ready and willing, sir.”

“Good boy.” Ed turned back to the menu. “Where’s the waiter? You know I only started this show to get free meals.”

Jean didn’t reply, and when Ed turned, he could see a distinctly uncomfortable expression on his face.

“Jean?”

“That’s, uh, that’d be me.”

Ed watched him, face impassive for a few moments, then closed his menu and set it down slowly and carefully. “Are you taking orders _and_ cooking?” he asked, voice neutral.

He could see the masked terror growing in Jean’s eyes. “Uh, no, we’re—we’re real short-staffed, and I’m the only one here who can wait for lunch, so…”

“The _fuck_ is this?” Ed snapped, raising his voice, and Jean cringed. “The fuck aren’t you in the kitchen for?”

“I told you—!”

“Fine!” Ed yanked the menu back up so quickly it made a whipping noise. “Eggplant Victoria. Cup of gumbo soup. Oysters Bienville, and that crawfish étouffée.” When Jean blinked at him, Ed rolled his eyes. “Before the week is up, Havoc!”

Jean took the menu, apologizing, and glanced back over in the direction of the camera. Ed followed his gaze and caught Kain, the ever loyal and trusty cameraman, snatching his hand away after giving a little wave, trying to look away and hide a small grin.

He whirled back over to Jean, catching the dumb grin on his face, then reached out to jab him in the chest with his index finger, a swift motion that not even the attempt at blocking it with the menu could stop.

“Flirt with the cute cameraman later!” Ed bellowed. “ _Fuck’s sake_ , we covered this back on Masterchef!”

Going white and looking like he might fall over, Jean turned and bolted back to the kitchen.

—

Ed stared disdainfully at the gumbo soup.

“Jean,” he asked slowly, lifting the spoon to let the goopy liquid drip out. “The fuck is in here?”

Jean cleared his throat. “Uh, it’s chicken stock, chicken, bell peppers, onions, celery…”

Ed reached his spoon back in, fishing out a dark lump of… something. Jean winced. “And Okra.”

“Okra, huh.” Ed peered at it, then grimaced, turning his head away. “Ugh. That’s _black_. Jean, this is _black!_ You _know_ what bad okra looks like!”

Jean hunched his shoulders. “I… yeah, I do.”

Ed made a disgusted noise, flicking it to the floor. “Jesus.”

The eggplant was soggy and disappointing, and joined the gumbo in being shoved across the table after Ed had thoroughly dissected it with his fork, leaving piles of mush that looked as appetizing as they tasted on the plate.

“Did you even taste this?”

Jean crossed his arms, and Ed knew from experience that it meant he was getting defensive and angry. _He_ was the one who had asked Ed to come in. “I’m… I’m just a waiter right now, boss.”

“So you didn’t taste it. Even though you know—you _know_ me—tell me, why’s that?”

Jean didn’t answer, but Ed could see the way his eyes slid from the gumbo, to the eggplant mush, and, well, Jean had never been good at hiding his feelings. Especially not disgust.

“You’re serving this to me and you _know_ it’s bad? If that’s the case, why aren’t you fucking _cooking?_ ” Could this be real? Was Ed actually, _actually_ here right now? Or had he stepped into some strange, parallel universe where frightening away customers was a _desirable_ trait for a chef, leaving Jean in at a disadvantage?

Jean didn’t answer, and Ed made a noise of frustration.

“Go send this back. I want the chef to _taste_ this shit. Does _he_ at least know I’m coming?” Ed thought of the alarmed host, the _complete_ lack of greeting from the ostensible owner, this “Frank” guy.

“He’s probably the only other one,” Jean muttered, which earned him a sharp glance from Ed, but before Ed could ask, he had snatched it up, turning and making a beeline for the kitchen.

Ed started in on the crawfish étoufée, which, upon a cautious prod with his fork, he determined resembled watery baby vomit more than food. _This_ was the quarter million dollar dish?

He had already done his number on the étoufée when Jean slunk out, followed by a black-haired young man with a nasty glare and a dirty chef’s jacket.

“What do you _mean_ my eggplant is a pile of _shit!_ ” the man—kid, really; who had put _him_ in charge over Jean?—hissed angrily, and Ed leaned back from his bowl of garbage, glancing lazily over at the offended punk. He hadn’t used those terms exactly, but a quick glance over at Jean showed him a suppressed gleam of satisfaction.

Something was fucking going on in this restaurant, and he was going to figure out what the hell it was.

“I said it was shit,” Ed said slowly, condescendingly, and earning a slightly more pleased smile from Jean, “because it is _shit._ Do you know _anything_ about eggplant? Do you know anything about _cooking?_ ”

“Of _course_ I do!” the kid snapped, and Ed rolled his eyes. “I have this job for a _reason_ , and I don’t need some bigshot coming in here to tell me how to do it!”

“Selim is the head chef and kitchen manager,” Jean said through gritted teeth, and Ed snorted at the obvious animosity. Whatever had happened to get Jean out of the kitchen had clearly not been his choice. “I’ll leave you two to it.”

Jean stepped back, and Ed lifted his chin, narrowing his eyes, preparing to give the verbal flaying of his life.

“Can I help with something?”

Ed turned to side-eye the woman who had just walked up. Now, _she_ was dressed professionally, in the uniform that Archer had thankfully kept from Jean’s original vision: the royal blue button down had always been charming, she looked nice in the black skirt, and the tailored black blazer she wore told him that she was very likely a manager. Her hair was up in a bun style that Ed might very well have to steal at some point.

And, of course, her eyes widened when she saw Ed, a reaction that he was used to, but _not_ from settings like this. Make that another member of staff that hadn’t been told he would be here. Selim, however, hadn’t been surprised.

“Yes, actually. Tell me, why is this clown is in the kitchen cooking instead of Jean Havoc? Who the fuck runs this place? Why are my fucking oysters—” He levered one of the rotten shellfish out of the shell with a knife, popping it onto the table. “ _Clearly_ food poisoning waiting to happen?

The woman’s eyes widened, her mouth opening in surprise—but instead of immediately rushing to Selim’s defense, her eyes flicked over to Jean, and the two exchanged a brief, knowing, and put-upon look.

Ed was distracted from exploring this further with Selim’s next outburst.

“Clown? Look, you hack, I _know_ what I’m doing—“

“Oh, do you? And what the fuck is that? Because it sure as _fuck_ isn’t cooking!” He stabbed a fork at one of the pieces of crawfish, was unsuccessful, and fished it out of the bowl before shoving it into Selim’s face. “Touch that! _Touch_ it!”

Selim glared resentfully, but then reached out to poke at it reluctantly. Ed shoved it into his hand so he could _feel_. The woman watched warily, not intervening, but clearly prepared to do so if Ed went _too_ far. Good. She knew that this brat had it coming.

“It’s so fucking rubbery I could drive a car on it! I couldn’t get my bloody fork through! What the _hell_ were you thinking?”

“I get _compliments_ on that dish—“

“From who, sewer dwellers? Fuck’s sake, I’ve had this dish in its prime. You—you’ve _ruined_ it!” He spooned up some of the offending dish, thrusting it towards Selim’s face, heedless of the way it dripped onto the already dirty jacket. “Taste it. Right fucking now.”

Selim shot him a glare that screamed murder, but honestly, too many people had tried to kill Ed by now that he wasn’t especially concerned. Reluctantly, he opened his mouth, and Ed shoved it in.

“There. Tell me that’s a dish that deserves _compliments_ now.”

Ed watched Selim chew, swallow, then look away, clearly in a sulk.

“That’s what I thought. You don’t even fucking taste it before it goes out of the kitchen, do you?” Ed shoved the bowl away. “This? This is fucking _bollocks._ ”

“Archer will be hearing about this,” Selim hissed before grabbing the food and stalking back to the kitchen.

“I fucking hope so,” Ed muttered, looking around. “He’s the owner, isn’t he? Where the fuck is he?” He turned his head towards the woman. “And who are you?”

She took a deep breath, clearly bracing herself. Well, if she didn’t give him a reason, he wouldn’t yell. “Riza Hawkeye, sir. Manager. I apologize for the quality. We didn’t know you were coming.”

“Not your fault the cook is shit, I guess. But you didn’t, huh,” Ed repeated dryly. Of fucking course. “Kind of important, to tell you lot something like that, eh?”

Riza shrugged one shoulder, her expression carefully neutral in a way that actually impressed Ed a bit. “We’re often the last people to know when, well, anything happens.”

Ed drummed his automail fingers on the table. “Mm, and here I thought it was just that host boy being a ditz.”

Riza ducked her head, clearly trying to hide a smile, and Ed felt a glimmer of hope that _someone_ on this staff might be doing something.

“Roy’s… he’s something else, but he’s not that terrible.”

“He was staring in the mirror for ages before he took me to my seat.”

“Well, please note my qualifier of _that_ bad.”

Ed actually let out a bark of laughter at that one.

“Right, well, anyway, where is this Frank Archer fellow? I need to tell him that this restaurant is in the shitter.”

—

It was thirty minutes, thirty _fucking_ minutes, for Frank Archer to come out of his office in the back and come talk to him.

Ed took less than that many seconds to decide that he hated him.

“I didn’t even want you here,” Archer snapped, rolling his eyes when Ed brought up the “your food is shit” argument. “My food is _fine._ Selim stays, and he doesn’t need to fix anything!”

“Have—have you fucking tasted it?” Ed finally managed to get out, voice cracking with disbelief and rage. “It’s fucking _vile!_ ”

“Of course I have.” Archer rolled his eyes with a dismissiveness that left Ed thinking, _You’re a fucking liar._ “You Brits just like to _complain_ about everything that you make up things to be picky about.”

Ed’s jaw dropped. “What did you just say to me?”

“You heard me.”

Ed could feel the blood drain from his face as he went white with rage. From the corner of his eye, he could see Ling gesturing to zoom the camera in on his face, but he didn’t care.

“ _First_ of all, you useless sack of Yankee Doodle Dandy shite, I’m fucking _Scottish-Iranian_ , not a _Brit_ , you xenophobic pig. _Second_ of all, if you think there is _anything_ decent about your little snot’s food, then you can _eat my shit_ , which I’ll add to the pile you’ve got to already _be_ eating, with a palette like that. And _finally_ ,” Ed snarled, voice rising into a full-fledged yell. “You are a _fucking moron_ for keeping that incompetent _joke_ of a chef when you have a _nationally award-winning one_ right here!” He jabbed a finger in Jean’s direction, and though Jean looked flattered for a moment, it quickly turned to a terrified glance over in Archer’s direction. “I cannot fucking _believe_ I’ve met someone so _stupid!_ ”

The staff stared on in either horror or fascination; Ed couldn’t tell which—though Selim’s expression matched Archer’s furious one, and Ed made a mental note to be very cautious about giving out his hotel address. He would really rather not wake up with a chef’s knife in his back.

“This is _my_ restaurant,” Archer finally grits out, “and _I_ choose who runs my kitchen. If you don’t like it, then leave. If not, then fix the _real_ problem, because the service here is garbage.” He shot a nasty look at the collection of people, which included Jean, Roy, Riza, and a scant few others. Fucking wonderful.

“Well, you were the worst thing to ever happen to it,” Ed snapped, turning on his heel. “I’m going for a fucking walk. _If_ I come back, I’ll see if I can salvage this garbage pit.”

—

“You know, I still think this shirt thing is a little ridiculous,” Ed grumbled to Ling as the cameras got ready.  “Every episode? You don’t think that’s a bit fucking much? I’ve done it a million times by now.” He was calmer now, and though he still couldn't suppress his irritation, after his walk he now had less of an urge to strangle cute things.

Well, except Roy Mustang.  That one, he didn't think he'd ever get over wanting to strangle.

“It brings in the ratings.” Ling was as cheerful and unfazed as ever, gesturing at Kain to start the recording.

Ed sighed and reached behind his head to grab the back of his shirt, tugging it off over his head, leaving his hair mussed up.

“Solaris was once an _amazing_ restaurant. I thought it was on the way to Michelin stars, honestly. Now, it’s turned to absolute _garbage_ , and I only hope that I can help return it to its former glory.”

He tossed the shirt over a chair, then reached up to grab his hair and wind it into a bun.  He had done this so many times now that his self-consciousness about his automail had completely vanished.  “The food is absolute shit, and inattentive hosts? Having Jean fucking Havoc _wait tables?_ It’s a disaster.”

Ed grabbed his chef’s jacket and shrugged into it, and he was unable resist a smirk: “Never met an owner with such a _thick_ skull, though. Let’s hope he’ll get his head up out of his ass long enough for him to let me help.” He reached down to button up the jacket, aiming an eyeroll at the camera.

When he finished the buttons, he caught a glimpse of someone peering down the isolated hall they had been using for filming, narrowed his eyes, and snapped, “Hey!”

The camera swung around, and Roy Mustang stepped into view, hands in the pockets of his vest as he smirked in their direction.

“Oh, look, it’s you.” Ed’s voice, while dry, at least wasn’t yelling this time. “What do you want, Narcissus?”

Roy’s eyebrows shot up in faux surprise, smirk deepening. “Narcissus? That’s not very nice. After seeing _that_ , I don’t think I’m going to _ever_ be able to admire my reflection the same way again.”

Ed stared for a moment, uncomprehending, and then reached over to fish for something—anything—he glanced down and spotted a door stop. Picking it up, he chucked it with shockingly accurate aim in Roy’s direction, sending him ducking back to whatever pit he came from. It generally tended to surprise people, how Ed’s talent for throwing things with accuracy had naturally developed in the kitchen. He didn’t really understand why, all things considered.

He heard Kain snort from behind the camera, and Ed scowled and whirled. “Don’t you even start. _You’re_ the one with a crush on a guy who lost a fuckin’ restaurant and got demoted to a waiter.”

Kain flushed and looked down, and Ed just rolled his eyes and stormed off.


	2. Chapter 2

Ed’s fifth glance at the clock in so many minutes did not bode well for the dinner service team.

“Any longer on the appetizers,” Ed muttered to the camera, “and they’ll be able to serve those fruit salads as wine instead.”

The customers seemed to agree: the muttering about the wait time was getting louder, and Ling was gleefully filming every scrap he could get his hands on.

“What the _fuck_ are they doing in there?” Ed finally snarled.  “Just send out the ingredients raw!  It’s not like that pathetic excuse for cooking is improving them any.”

There was a soft snort from the team behind the camera; Ed was pretty sure it was Lan Fan.  Though it was well-hidden, he had always loved her sense of humor.  Now if only anyone working at this restaurant had half as much sense.

Well, Riza might, he amended as he watched her thoughtfully.  She had been making the rounds to the tables periodically, apologizing for the wait not long after Ed had determined that it was becoming unreasonable, and without prompting.  He did make a couple of mental notes: he would have liked to have perhaps seen free drinks offered—though the liquor license was gone, pop might have soothed some ruffled feathers—and have her ask what the _hell_ the kitchen was doing.  Still, given what he had seen of the current head ownership, he recognized that it was a very real possibility that those actions were prohibited.

“Is Archer _trying_ to run this fucking place into the ground?” Ed muttered, just loudly enough for his mic to pick it up.

He turned, glancing around some more, and…

A fucking queue had backed up in front of the host’s station.  No one was there.  From what he had been told, Solaris hadn’t been this busy in months: Ed’s presence in the town had attracted a much larger crowd, as usual, and the staff was clearly unequipped to handle it.

“Where the _hell_ is Narcissus!”

Ed twisted his head, beginning to peer around.  Fuck this understaffed disaster.

A familiar voice rang out from the direction of the kitchen.

“Do you have that gumbo yet?  The first order of the night hasn’t come out!  It’s been an hour!”

Generally, his policy for the first night was one of relative uninvolvement, but this…

Ed waded his way over to Roy Mustang, a little bit of a manic gleam in his eye.

“What,” he hissed, “the _hell_ are you doing?”

Roy whirled, eyes wide.  He looked helplessly frazzled, but when he caught sight of Ed, he managed to force out a grin.  The end result came out looking somewhat alarmingly manic, even moreso than Ed.

“Chef!  Hi there!  Just trying to get some of these orders out—“

“You have a bloody massive queue of people waiting to be seated!  You’re the fucking host!  Leave the expediting to whoever’s job it is and get your ass back over there!”

Roy glanced towards the kitchen, then back at Ed.  “Expediting _is_ my job—“

“You’re the fucking _host!_ ” Ed burst out with again.  “You can’t do both at once—fucking _clearly_ —“

“It’s that or be fired,” Roy hissed, lowering his voice.  “So if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to do what I can of my job tonight.”  A plate slid out through the window.  It was a plate of stuffed mushrooms, not the bowl of gumbo requested, but Roy practically sagged with relief—and Ed might have, too, a little.  Food, actual food in this restaurant.  Roy called for Jean, who looked even more relieved than Roy as he whisked it off to his table.

Another dish finally slid out, then another.  Thank fuck.  Roy waved over the other server—seriously, just two?  Jesus—and the man scurried over, grabbing the plate.

“Good, your food is coming out.  You bloody ready to get back to hosting yet?”

Roy half-smirked, but even on him it looked strained.  “Unless you’re going to yell at me some more.  Permission to get back, sir?”

Ed rolled his eyes.  “Aye aye, Colonel Tightpants.”

He could see Roy hesitate, the question on the tip of his tongue, if Ed had just made a sideways reference—he had; Ling had just ordered him to botch his quotes as often as possible to avoid someone deciding to sniff around for royalties, and he’d undoubtedly want to use that one when adding titles post-production—but Ed didn’t have the time to talk cult television this evening.  “Go!” he snapped.

Roy darted back to the host’s stand.

Ed took a deep breath, retreating again…

“ _Whuff!_ ”

That noise.

That was a _dog._

Ed closed his eyes, inhaled through his nose, and sent up a prayer to the familial deities once again.

“Someone.”  His voice rang out with its intensity, despite its low, dangerous volume, and several people, customers included, turned to look at him.  “Tell me.  Right now.  What a _dog_ is doing in this restaurant.”

The black and white Shiba Inu plopped down to sit across from Ed, panting happily.

“Hayate, no!”

Jean stumbled over, setting his serving tray down on an empty table.  “Shit!  Sorry, he’s supposed to be outside—“  He bent over as if to pick up the dog, thought better of it—thank fuck; that would have been disgusting—and reached down to grab its collar instead.  The dog, of course, planted its haunches firmly on the ground, and despite his frustration, Ed had to choke back a laugh.  Whether it was at the sight of the dog with its head leaned back, skin bunched up around its cheeks as it refused to budge with a firm expression on its face, or Jean’s frazzled look as he glanced around helplessly, Ed wasn’t really sure.

“Riza!” Jean called.  Ed caught sight of her, taking plates off of a couple’s table.  The two women looked incredibly displeased.

“This can’t be good,” Ed murmured, glancing back at the camera.

Riza made her way over to them.  When she got close enough, Ed could see that she was carrying a plate of calamari and a Cajun shrimp cocktail.

“What’s going on, darling?” he asked voice as tired as her expression, pinching the bridge of his nose.  Of everyone here, Riza seemed to be the one most capable—and in a position to do something.  Jean wasn’t an idiot, of course, but Archer clearly seemed to take a perverse glee in tying him down—tighter than even Ed would have enjoyed.  Arrogant fucker.

“They want their appetizers sent back,” she sighed, and from the fatigue in her voice, Ed could tell that she knew very well that they were the first in a long line of kitchen returns.

“Can you get Hayate out of here?” Jean asked, just as tired as Riza and with even more desperation, and her shoulders slumped.

“No,” Ed snapped, frustration mounting.  “No, why don’t we bloody leave him here, because it’s not like it makes anything worse!”  He threw up his hands.  “Fitting, in fact, that you have a fucking dog running around here, eh?  It suits the mood!  At least he’s happy!  Where’s that fuckhead?”

When they stared at him blankly—and Jean darted a glance over towards the host’s stand—Ed sighed heavily, rolling his eyes.  “ _Archer._  What the hell is Archer doing?  I haven’t seen him!”

There was momentary silence as Jean, Riza, and the other waiter—Vato, Ed thought his name was—who had drifted over to the commotion glanced at each other with equally hesitant expressions.

“Well?”

“In his office,” Riza said finally, disapproval clear in her voice.  “He usually stays in there.”

Ed sneered.  “And leaves you to deal with the fallout from his shit oversight, eh?  Classy.”

Her expression was answer enough, and he glanced into the camera and rolled his eyes.

“An inattentive owner who’s also massively incompetent?” he grumbled as he made his way to the office, cameras trailing.  “It’s a wonder this place is still breathing.  I have to wonder, does he know what’s going on?  And at this point, does he even care?  To me, it’s becoming increasingly obvious that this place is barely held together by its staff.  Riza could be _so great_ , with the right training.  Jean should know what he’s doing, if we can figure out what made Solaris sink in the first place.  Even Colonel Tightpants over there probably isn’t entirely useless.  Archer doesn’t even want me here, and an uncooperative owner means this place is going to collapse no matter how hard the staff tries.”

Ed didn’t even knock on Archer’s office door, simply let it fly open for dramatic effect.  The man jumped, papers flying everywhere, then glared.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Am _I_ doing?  A hell of a lot more than you are!  Come here!”

After several minutes of arguing that Ling would undoubtedly cut later to make Ed seem immediately victorious, Archer stormed out to the dining area.

Riza was now up to her ears in returned food, it looked like, and he had to give her credit for the way she handled three dishes at a time.  Still, she had to promise two more tables on the way that she would be back for them, and Ed gestured helplessly at the room.

“Do you see this?  You’ve got a queue backed up almost _out the door_ now—“

“That’s because the help is _lazy_ and _slow_ , and the only reason I don’t fire them is because I don’t have anyone to take their place!” Archer snapped.

“Lazy and—your _kitchen_ staff is to blame here, probably that little brat—“

“Selim is a _good_ cook—“

“Bollocks!  You’ve barely got a quarter of the tables’ food out!  The least you could do is offer them free drinks!  Bloody pop, for all I care!”

“That’s money, and I can’t afford to—“

Ed snarled and cut him off with a slashing gesture, then pointed at a family of four leaving the restaurant.  Their table showed that they hadn’t even eaten yet.

“Like you can afford _that?_  It’s probably a good thing that they haven’t been served yet.  Less chance for food poisoning!”  Ed pointed in the direction of the kitchen next, grabbing Archer’s arm with his automail hand—he half-hoped it bruised—and dragging him over to where Roy now stood.  “And look, you’ve got your host expediting, and he _clearly_ knows nothing about food quality—“

“Hey!” Roy objected, and at the same time Archer growled, “There is _nothing_ wrong with the food!”

“Nothing—nothing wrong?”  Ed tried, he usually did, to keep his voice down during dinner services, but a man could only put up with so much.  He took a deep breath, snatching up a bowl of slimy, mushy gumbo.  “ _YOUR FOOD IS SO SHIT I CAN’T EVEN FEED IT TO THE DOG!_ ”

The _entire_ restaurant went silent for a moment that seemed to last for years.  Ed hoped they were getting the show they had paid for, because they certainly weren’t getting a meal worth any amount of money.  Hayate pattered over and sat at Ed’s feet with a happy little “whuff” and wag of his tail.

Roy and Archer took longer to recover than the dining room, and at least Roy had the decency to clear his throat and look a little ashamed of himself.  Here, Ed might actually have a chance to get _someone_ to listen.

“You.  Colonel Tightpants.”  Ed snatched up a spoon, scooping it into the nasty gumbo mess.  “It’s part of your job, if you’re expediting, to _monitor_ quality!  Don’t let this shit go out!”  He lifted a spoonful.  “Come here and open your mouth and tell me how this tastes.”

He could see a flash of disgust in Roy’s eyes—so he _knew_ , the bastard—before his face settled into that cocky smirk again.  “You want me on my knees?”

It was a heartbeat of silence, of time that it took Ed to process and recover from the comment—and the mental image that came along with it—but Ed was acutely aware of that moment, and of the slight flush in his cheeks.  He could only hope that Roy didn’t notice.

“If your competence here is indicative of your competence in other areas, absolutely not.  You’d probably start chewing.”

“I’ve yet to see you produce anything tasty enough to chew.”

Damn this bastard, and _damn_ his cockiness, the smirk of someone who knew very well how attractive he was and the effect it had on people.  Ed was quickly developing a very long list of things—unpleasant things!—he wanted to do to wipe that smirk off Roy’s face.

He stepped in, their faces very, very close together, his voice low and dangerous.

“I own five star restaurants all over the globe.   _You_ are a host in a failing restaurant that can’t even achieve mediocrity,” Ed spat.  “When I tell you to open, you get ready to swallow, _boy._ ”

It was a tone that had earned him his career, a voice that had terrified hundreds, put the fear of god into men twice Ed’s height and three times as big around.

But Roy…

Roy slid his eyes from Ed’s toes, to his head, and back again, sinfully slowly, gaze full of promises.  After a breath in which Ed’s face got steadily warmer, Roy purred, “I’ll take that as a yes.”

The words managed to pique Ed’s frustration enough to shatter the spell.  He shrieked in frustration and turned—to see Kain panning in quite close to Ed’s burning expression.

Ed snarled and reached out to shove the camera away.  “Go follow Jean around!” he snapped, falling back on old comebacks while his brain short-circuited too much for him to think of any decent fresh material.  “God knows you did enough of that back on Masterchef!”

Taking a deep breath, Ed turned back to Archer, who was watching them both distastefully.

“Are you finished?”

Ed let out a bark of laughter.  “Am _I_ finished?   _You_ say that to _me_ after you’ve been sitting on your arse all night—“

“I was doing _work!_  Managing my _restaurant!_  Not that you’d know about real work—you’re the one who probably sits around on your ass while you _pay_ someone to do it—“

Ed sneered.  “No, I pay someone to do it because I’m too busy on the phone dealing with how fucking booked full my restaurants are.  Something _you’ll_ never have to worry about.”

“Please!  You trade on a name; I doubt there’s anything quality—“

“Quality!  You want to give _this_ a taste and then lecture me about quality?”  Ed lifted the bowl of gumbo.

Archer gave it and Ed equally disdainful looks.  “I’m not going to stand here and listen to this.  Not when you’ve clearly planted that to get your show better ratings.  Sabotage my restaurant again, and I’ll sue.”

Ed could only stare, mouth agape, as Archer whirled and stormed off.  When he glanced over, Roy was watching him like he wasn’t sure if Ed was the second coming or the Antichrist.

“What?” he snapped, and Roy just shook his head.

Ed rolled his eyes and glanced back towards the camera.  “I’ve been accused of that more times than I can count, and they’re always proven wrong.  Truly, the last refuge of a man in denial.”

He glanced back down at the gumbo in his hands, his fury returning.  With another snarl, he grabbed the spoon and threw it, as hard as he could, through the kitchen doors onto the floor.

He stormed inside with a roar of, “Back!   _Back!_  I’m sending this fucking _back!_  This is rubbish!  It’s _shit!_  Throw it in the bin!”  He chucked the bowl in the sink, sending soup splattering everywhere.  “What the _fuck_ is wrong with this kitchen!”


End file.
